


Working Title: Laid Off

by syrupwit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Miles saves Trager from the elevator. Stuff happens.





	Working Title: Laid Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malatruse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malatruse/gifts).



> malatruse had an idea and I ran with it. Thanks bb! I'm still running, you can't catch me!
> 
> Sorry about the title. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Alternate suggestions are welcome.

Miles acted on instinct, or out of habit, or something like that. It was beyond his conscious control.

One moment, the elevator doors were squeezing "Doctor" Trager to death for Miles' viewing pleasure. The next, he was pulling the erstwhile surgeon into the chamber with him. Miles heard rather than felt himself grunt with effort as he tugged Trager free. The man fell to the floor, scissors clattering beside him. Miles snagged the scissors and stepped back. His skin buzzed.

Miles had seen much better people die, in Ghana and Afghanistan and more places than he cared to recount. Why he'd saved this creature was beyond his comprehension.

The crumpled heap of Trager muttered something. Miles hovered outside the elevator, wary of turning his back. He wasn't sure how far the stairs were or if they'd been blocked off somehow, and it would be easier to kick Trager while he was down than run for a merely hypothetical exit. Anger, fear, and fading adrenaline warred inside him.

Trager said something again. Unwilling to move closer, Miles said loudly, "What?"

Trager grinned. The surgical mask stretched, offering a glimpse at a bottom row of yellowed, snaggled teeth, _oh god_ what had they done to his lips. He rasped, "Guess you're not as much of a quitter as I thought."

Miles watched as Trager clambered to his feet. He wasn't in great shape. He was breathing heavily and had to stoop, doubled over for a second, couldn't straighten fully. The inhuman vitality that animated him seemed dimmed, like a flickering flame. But Miles knew enough to see how that flame could blaze back into a fire.

"Stay the fuck back," Miles warned, brandishing his weapon.

"Aww, buddy." Trager took a staggering step forward. "I just want to thank you."

"Stay back," Miles repeated.

Trager continued to advance. "Just want to say thanks. Don't you want to be recognized for your accomplishments?"

"Get the fuck back or I'll fucking stab you," said Miles, but Trager lunged for him, and the scissors slipped from his blood-slick fingers. He put up an arm to ward Trager off. It was wrenched aside and twisted behind his back as Trager...uh.

 _He doesn't even have lips_ , Miles thought. Then amended, _He doesn't have most of his lips_. Trager's tongue was thick and foul in Miles' mouth, his clawed hands tight on Miles' sides. Miles kneed him in the stomach and he stumbled back.

"Whew, got a breath mint? You taste like gallbladder. I gotta say, not my favorite organ meat."

"Get away from me, sicko!"

"Sicko? Really?"

"Crazy perverted dishrag psycho quack—"

"Come on, sweetheart. I know you can do better."

"Twisted rich douche fucker, if you touch me again I'll kill you—"

"You say the _cutest_ things," breathed Trager, ripping off the mask, and kissed Miles again. His complaints regarding the taste of Miles' mouth notwithstanding, he wasn't shy about sticking his tongue down Miles' throat. Miles supposed Trager could be trying to make up for the lack of lips, though it might just be the way he kissed. Gross.

Fucking gross. Here Miles was—exhausted; traumatized; maimed; covered in blood, bile, and bits of other people's organs; and possibly seconds away from death—and he was getting worked up over his would-be murderer's Frenching technique? He considered. Yes, he was.

Miles jerked away instinctively when Trager nipped at the side of his neck, but those messed-up teeth teased rather than tore when they latched onto his pulse point. Trager's veiny cheek brushed Miles' neck, his stringy hair tickling Miles' jaw. If he ever got out of this place, Miles was going to need a day-long shower and at least two loofahs. Plus a pack of sponges. Maybe steel wool ones.

Miles wasn't sure why he wasn't running away. Maybe it was the teeth at his neck. Maybe it was the utter, dizzying surreality of this moment. Trager smacked a parody of a kiss on the crook of Miles' neck. He sure was a mouthbreather. One of his claws settled over Miles' ass, like it had a right to, and squeezed.

"Don't get fresh," Miles cautioned, but it came out all weird and low and breathless, and—oh no. Oh, no. In an attempt to set the situation to rights, Miles stepped on Trager's foot. Trager hissed in pain, but redoubled his efforts at kneading Miles' ass cheeks, pushed their hips together. Freeze frame, record scratch: Miles was suddenly, soberingly aware of how into it they both apparently were.

Seriously, that apron hid nothing.

"Oh, yeah," Trager panted against Miles' chin, squirming, rolling his hips. Miles felt his hands tighten on Trager's body as his pelvis canted forward, ostensibly of its own will. It felt good. It was fucked up beyond Miles' current capacity for understanding, but it felt good.

What the hell. He'd done worse. He might do worse before the night was out, before he left this place (if he ever did). He might as well take this single moment of freakish pleasure among the unreckoned but vast majority of awful ones.

Finding a rhythm was easy. Pulling Trager into it, less so. Had the man ever _not_ been subtly off? But it kept working for Miles, the whole thing: the adrenaline remaining in his system; Trager's half-choked, cheesy, and completely out of place dirty talk; his own stuttering breaths; the way the blood was still drying on his finger stumps (he kept thinking they were whole); Trager's nails scoring lines through his clothes. He was going to take a bath in rubbing alcohol and Neosporin. He was going to come.

As much must have been communicated to Trager somehow, because he started moving a lot faster. Miles had escalated, and now he responded to re-escalation. He ground. He writhed. Trager's bony, wrinkled ass clenched and unclenched in his grasp, and he liked it. He liked all of it: the flow of Trager's blood in the drip under his hand, the hammering of Trager's pulse against his chest. He wanted to—

"Come on, buddy," said Trager.

Miles did.

As he caught his breath, wincing at the mess in his jeans, he noted that Trager had noted where the scissors had fallen. And also that, as he untangled himself from Miles, he was moving to collect them.

"Hey, wait," said Miles, trying to be casual while his heart was still pounding and his voice slightly slurred. "One for the road?"

Trager shuddered a little as Miles kissed him, and his softening cock twitched against Miles' thigh. He was warm. But the glint in his eye was awfully cold when Miles pulled back. The whole room was cold. Jesus, what the fuck. Why had he done this. Why was any of this happening.

"My son!" cried Father Martin, from somewhere. Somewhere way too close. There was an ominous crash of thunder outside.

"Daddy's boy, eh?" said Trager, like that wasn't the biggest comedown/least welcome pillow talk in the history of the universe, and slashed at the air. The scissors went, _shink_!

This was the worst day of Miles' fucking life.


End file.
